


Damaged

by alienchrist



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Backstory, Blood, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dubious Consent, Gore, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:10:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienchrist/pseuds/alienchrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blanked-out memories, his reason for leaving the Dalish, and a predatory merchant prince. A dark little story about Zevran's past, and his hope for the future when he gives away the golden earring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damaged

There were rooms in the brothel that didn’t exist to Zevran as a child. Blank spots in his mental map, doors he never looked at as he walked past them. These rooms were huge in their nonexistence, like great empty mouths gaping wide to suck in light, time, and memory. He could not remember them. He did not think they were strange. When someone pulled him by arm, dragged him by the hair or even led him by the hand into one of those rooms, he could not recall it afterward. The strength of these rooms’ strange spells was such that they even stole the moments that brought him inside them. Zevran remembered the bawdy songs, the clink of glasses and the slurred secrets of workers. He remembered the time one of the human children stole a string of pearls, and being beaten so soundly for the crime, sneaky, dishonest elf that he was. He couldn’t sit right for weeks.

But there were a multitude of aches and pains Zevran never could quite account for. Perhaps it was the bad ale they had to drink, cleaner than the water, sometimes, or stale and moldy bread. Sometimes awakened in his bed with no memory of bathing, dressing, and falling asleep there. Zevran knew many things at the age of seven, though he didn’t know a sword pommel from the pointy end. He knew what men and women looked like naked, he knew how give massages, draw baths, braid hair, sweep up, cook food, water down ale. He knew money, haggling, even how to steal a coin now and then. He knew what a man looked like when he thought someone owed him money, when he planned to pay no money, and when he planned to blacken a whore’s eye and get thrown out. Without being conscious of it, he knew the power of those rooms, too. He tiptoed around them, and ignored every sound they made. But he didn’t understand what they were, not till later.

 

If Zevran had to pick an exact moment when he realized joining the Dalish wouldn’t work out, it would have to be when he broke a girl’s nose. There were a myriad of complaints about him already, and Zevran had complaints of his own. He disliked the unfamiliar smell of wilderness and animals, the scarce meat their hunters found frequently made him ill. He held a deep distrust of communally cooked and served meals, and the way he slept, to quote the other children, was very creepy.

The Dalish carried few possessions, but a few of their youngest slept with little dolls of rags and sticks. Zevran slept with knives. It was the subject of many arguments, yet he could not be dissuaded.

The girl, Miriah, had a crush on him. That is what everyone said. She also liked to creep up behind him to grab his arm and cling, despite the fact such personable behavior was frowned upon. He warned Miriah exactly twice that if she continued, he might forget to restrain the reflex and break her nose in retaliation. She thought he wouldn’t, but he did so without thinking, and could not muster a damn to give about the scene she caused about it afterward. Children who did not take direction died quickly in the Crows. For all the Dalish warned him their life was harsh, did they not understand such simple concepts?

“Miriah was fortunate,” he told the the Keeper without a shred of emotion, “That it wasn’t her neck, or her bow-fingers.”

The Keeper of their tribe was well-known for not being fond of children. She always looked at Zevran like she never knew quite what to do with him. “Many of the People from the city come to us hurt, or afraid, and cause nothing but imbalance when they join a tribe, thinking we can help, somehow,” the Keeper said carefully. She always drew up such careful words for him. Zevran could see it in the way she moved her lips so slowly. The Keeper was the one who was afraid, Zevran thought. “They have been damaged by the abuse of shemlen.” He could see how it disgusted her, the thought of taking in an elf who was thus damaged.

(In his mind, a sudden image of himself: laying on a bed naked, covered in sticky filth. Crying openly, when was he ever stupid enough to do that?

_Damaged._ The word resonated.)

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Zevran interrupted, all crossed arms and obstinate looks. “I’m an assassin. It’s a bad idea to sneak up on assassins. She was warned.”

He thought of being grabbed, of a hand on the small of his back and a mouth on his shoulder like the slime-trail of a big, black slug. Zevran shuddered. A sliver of fear pierced his chest. The pain made him so angry he could barely speak.

“You are safe here with us, Zevran, understand at least that much,” said the Keeper.

“But are you safe with me?” Zevran replied. The Keeper tried not to flinch at his smile.

He slept with the halla that night. No one asked him to, but Zevran knew the children, like the Keeper, were afraid of him.

Before he slept, Zevran remembered staring at an oil painting in a mostly-darkened room, lying on his back, naked. The painting was a drab, poorly-crafted little thing portraying a bamboo bridge and some flowers, with an indistinct figure in the distance. Sometimes Zevran thought the figure was a fellow rogue, or a warrior with a giant ax or sword, or a mighty sorcerer with a staff. His favorite fantasy, though, was that it was a Dalish hunter, a long sibling or aunt or uncle who would emerge from the painting and take him away to a grand hunt. The reality, much like the dull color palette of the painting, was far muddier.

Miriah was in charge of feeding the halla that morning. He heard her calling after him just as he slipped away in the dawn light. He didn’t care to reply. He didn’t look back once.

Zevran thought he understood, but in the years after, he succeeded in putting it out of his head. It was better to never acknowledge those rooms, let alone revisit them. Instead, he became a Crow.

 

Zevran’s first solo assignment with the Crows was a Rivaini merchant prince. He laughed aloud when he went over the dossier. The prince had a fondness for his valets. Several servants, mostly blonds, all young elves, quit the job after a short time. One of them was the son of the alienage elder, who brought complaint to the city guard, perhaps mistaken that the position held meaning. The report was quite sordidly detailed, but unsurprisingly, nothing came of it. The merchant prince bought off the captain of the guard and the investigation stopped. It would have been particularly satisfying if the elves hired Zevran in revenge, but they could not afford the Crows. No, Zevran’s errand was on behalf of the businessman’s competitor, seeking to grab his corner of the market upon his demise.

It was almost too easy. Playing the part of someone who trained all his life to bow and scrape to powerful humans came naturally. Zevran was the epitome of grace, could pick out clothes and tie up doublets with deft and inoffensive fingers. His cover story was believable, and more importantly than that, the merchant prince liked him best.

The merchant prince was actually rather handsome, and younger than Zevran thought he would be, considering his shameless behavior. He interviewed Zevran personally, which was taking rather more interest in his servants than most people found tasteful. At the end of the interview, he leaned forward and grasped Zevran’s chin.

“Now look up at me.”

“Messere, you’re hurting me,” Zevran said, his voice weak with uncertainty. He kept the city guard report in mind as a loose outline for tonight’s script. He would have to be careful not to follow it completely. He also needed to add just the slightest air of seductiveness, to be certain some other poor sop didn’t get hired and violently ravaged as a result. Zevran looked away and bit his lip.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” the merchant prince said sharply. “Tell me the real reason you want this job. Spare me the crap about what an honor it would be. If you wanted to kiss up you’d try this at one of the royal houses. You’re here because you want my money. I know your kind.”

The merchant prince meant to intimidate him, to trap him with mind tricks. Zevran could kill him now, but there were a lot of servants about in the house at this hour, and guards right outside the open door. He could do it, but it would not be ideal. It would be a sloppy murder, not an assassination. This was his first job alone. He needed to make an impression.

Besides, he was sort of having fun. The bastard was really into this role of his: a predator, and a man with more money than sense.

“My older sister, Yemena,” Zevran stammered, “She is with child. There’s no money…”

“And so she sends her little brother into the world to line her purse? What about the father of the child?”

Zevran swallowed an imaginary lump in his throat. “She was r - it was against her will. She cries all the time. Our father turned her out, and I went with her. The baby will come soon. I need a job now.” He let his voice tremble and quake, since clearly the merchant prince wanted him to be afraid. Wanted to see that he was stupid enough to stay in the grasp of a hand that could snap his neck. “Please, messere. I know I’m young, but no one else would take me on.”

“Just how young are you?”

“Fifteen.” Zevran did a convincing fifteen.

“I love your hair. Such an unusual color with your skin tone. You really are a fine one.”

“Messere,” Zevran’s voice jumped upward, cautious and seeking approval.

“You start tomorrow morning. Just call me Senior Damon.” Damon provided a condescending smile.

_More like Senior Estúpido_ , Zevran thought. He gave his own name as Luis, and the job began.

It was a few weeks of inappropriately long touches and looks before Damon made his move. He did it while Zevran was helping him out of his clothes for the day, one of the last duties of the night. It was clear that Damon had intentions for the night. He claimed to want a quiet house to sleep in, and had his guards stationed only at the doors downstairs. Perhaps he feared that even the most well-paid guards might not ignore screams or cries from his bedroom.

“Are you a virgin, Luis?”

Zevran cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind me saying, Senior Damon, that’s between me and my eventual betrothed.”

“I thought we were becoming friends. Friends get privileged living accommodations, a nice apartment for both the valet and his wife - or perhaps a sister who’s down on her luck. Valets, I might get bored with and fire after a time.”

“I’m a virgin,” Zevran whispered, perfecting the affectation of shame while thinking, Not even close.

“Ever seen a human cock before? They’re much bigger than elves’s.”

“No, I’ve rarely met human men, I’ve been in the alienage my whole life,” Zevran lied again. Damon missed the note of humorous irony in his voice, too busy following his own script in his head. Zevran’s heart raced. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to run. But more than anything else, he wanted to laugh at how easy this was going to be.

“Get on your knees,” Damon said, and shoved him downward. Zevran’s vision went white, and he realized, suddenly, that he was one of those rooms, a room he always tiptoed past and never looked inside. He often glanced over his shoulder at the room, on his way to a brothel or crawling into the bed he sometimes shared with Taliesin, but paid it little more mind than that. Today, he walked into it of his own volition. This kind of panic got assassins killed, but in this moment, Zevran feared another fate far more. In fact, he was trembling.

He was face-to-face with an uncut penis. It was flaccid, but waking up, apparently enthusiastic about the prospect of dominating a terrified elf boy.

“You poor thing, you’re scared of it, aren’t you? It’s okay, just give it a little pet.”

Zevran did, but quickly withdrew his hand like he was afraid of being bitten. “I can’t do this, messere, please,” he whispered, with almost-real tears in his eyes.

“Oh? And what about Yemena? If you lose this job, how will she feed that baby on the way?”

Zevran winced, scooting backward on his knees.

Damon pushed forward, pushing the tacky tip of his dick against Zevran’s cheek and lips like a puppy would its nose. Zevran considered the razor in his sleeve. He imagined slicing the thing clean off in a single motion, and that poor, silly dick wiggling about like a worm on the floor while the blood spurted absolutely everywhere. Zevran would dance and laugh in the spray like a joyful Chantry sister in a holy fountain, and Damon would die screaming in pure agony.

Of course that was not the reality of it. Even the sharpest razor would require a little sawing motion, and oh, the mess and the screaming. Not really worth the effort.

Zevran’s world suddenly snapped back into focus. He wasn’t in one of those forgotten rooms. He was in the bedroom of Senior Estúpido, his mark, and he didn’t have to damn thing he didn’t want to. He stood up.

“Very well,” Zevran said slowly, “If that is how it’s going to be, I’ll… do this thing that you ask.”

Senior Estúpido, who was destined to die tonight, said, “Good. Take your clothes off.” Zevran worked hard not to smirk.

Though he was young, Zevran knew plenty about sex. Fortunately, not only the bad things. He knew some people liked to play games, even dress up in little costumes. There was some kind of thrill in taking on another identity, or perhaps the thrill was seeing a lover get lost in a fantasy. He did not know if this was similar, but he was quite certain it was a kind of game.

He watched Damon leer at him. The man was thrilled down to the tips of his toes about hurting an innocent young man so thoroughly. Not just an idiot, but a wretch. But Zevran performed a clumsy strip tease with great satisfaction. Damon did not suspect his dear Luis even a little, which was a very dumb thing to do in Antiva City. Zevran would almost pity the man were his intentions not so wholly despicable.

Instead, he decided to use Damon. His body was nice enough, and the enthusiasm he demonstrated was strangely pleasing. It was the thrill of puppetry, a bizarre and potent sense of control. Damon thought he was taking everything away from his dear Luis: dignity, security, happiness, comfort. The merchant prince had the time of his life with the elf’s young, flexible body. He whispered little threats in Zevran’s ear, unaware each one was entirely meaningless. Damon pounded, doubled his his thrusts when Zevran whimpered. Zevran was intoxicated, savoring the power like a thick, sweet brandy. It continued only because he wished it to. He had his victim completely at his mercy, and the fool didn’t even know it. Damon scraped with teeth, he shuddered and penetrated, but he was barely a person to Zevran at all, just a vessel of life and sex delivered to Zevran in a handsome but pathetic package.

He rode Damon in the end. When he brought himself off, he came so hard he saw spots.

Then he dismounted, still straddling the man, stretching his arms out over his head in a yawn.

“I’m not finished,” Damon wheezed, glaring. He grabbed Zevran by the hips.

“I am,” said Zevran, stretching just a little further to retrieve a dagger he hid in the mattress frame. Oldest trick in the book, really. He pressed the weapon to Damon’s throat with one hand. With the other hand, he picked up Damon’s fine shirt, examining it in a bored manner. “Go on, beg me for your life. Offer to beat whatever price I was paid. Offer me diamond mines and silk farms. Offer me beautiful new boots.”

“I’m the richest man in the city,” Damon said, in the halting tone of someone struggling to remain rational. He was spooked like a horse, his eyes showing too much white. “I’ll give you whatever you want. And what we did just there - that was fun, right? You could keep me around for that.”

“You may be the richest man, but you are not the cleverest,” Zevran said. Damon opened his mouth to shout for his guards. Zevran cut his throat in one smooth gesture, holding up Damon’s shirt so the blood wouldn’t spoil his clothes. He pressed the bloody blouse to the gaping wound. “And for all your talk, your cock is below average. And, hm, has anyone ever told you this shirt really isn’t your color?”

Damon gurgled and twitched. Zevran hopped off, pulling his clothes back on with a thoughtful sigh.

“That was perhaps the strangest thing I’ve ever done, and that is saying something. I’d go so far as to call it a little disgusting. Perhaps I should go to confession. What do you think?”

The lack of reply could be attributed to the death of the only other person in the room.

Zevran may not have been impressed by Damon’s choice in clothes, but he saw a little gold on his ear, gleaming, and smiled.

Why not help himself? It’s not as if Damon wouldn’t have returned the favor.

Besides, he suffered through plenty to get to this point. He earned himself one more little treat.

 

Rinna once asked him it wasn’t a little coarse, sleeping with his marks. Zevran made no secret of his habits. Crows, like all birds, loved to gossip and assign undue meaning to their opinions.

“You know I’m a fan of you, Zevran, but it’s definitely messed up. You have the power of life and death over them, and you’re kind of using it to sleep with them. You just don’t seem like the type to take that kind of advantage when you don’t need to.”

_Because you are so moralistic by comparison?_ Zevran nearly asked, but didn’t let the sarcasm through. He wanted to impress her, so he was actually somewhat honest: “I only sleep with people who are interested, I don’t force myself on them. In a way, we both get what we want.”

Rinna had a wonderful chuckle. It was a low, dirty thing, rich and dark like swamp loam. “I think if you asked any of them what they wanted, it would probably involve not being murdered.”

“No one gets everything they want,” Zevran said reasonably. “No one gets to choose the path their life takes. Or when it ends, for that matter.”

“Hmm,” Rinna said in that tone she used that Zevran could not chart at all. He put an arm around her waist.

“Have I told you that you’re simply ravishing tonight, darling?”

She smiled at him like daylight breaking. “I hope it’s not because you’re planning to kill me.”

 

Damon’s earring grew heavier after Zevran faced the Crows with his Warden friend in Denerim. It was the only thing he carried with him from Antiva that he treasured. It was not only a part of him, but a symbol of the life he embraced, the person he chose to become. He saw in this piece of jewelry every deed mapped out in his warped reflection, staring back at him. He no longer knew what it meant. After years of barely thinking of it at all, it suddenly seemed like far too much to carry.

He couldn’t put the importance of giving away the earring into words, let alone to someone who meant so much to him.

It was a token he stole from a room he no longer cared to visit. It was a symbol of someone depraved, powerful, vicious, and terrified. Someone a little damaged, but also, when it came right down to it, very together. A survivor, sharp as a blade and ten times as deadly. When Zevran first gave his friend the earring, he couldn’t tell the whole story. But looking at it every day, hanging from a chain around his lover’s neck, he knew someday he would have to.

Perhaps eventually, Zevran could give that longed-for confession.

And he could open the door to other rooms with company.

_I do not know why this is difficult to say, but I was…_


End file.
